A Hundred Thousand Flaws
by Lena7142
Summary: They can break his spirit, they can take his hope, and they can shred his dignity, but Billy won't let them see him weep...


**Title:** A Hundred Thousand Flaws

**Author:** Lena7142

**Character**: Billy

**Warnings**: Torture (nonexplicit)

**A/N:** Written for Faye Dartmouth, with many thanks for her beta-ing services.

* * *

"_No, I'll not weep:_

_I have full cause of weeping; but this heart_

_Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,_

_Or ere I'll weep."_

- King Lear, Act II scene iv

* * *

-o-

Billy curls up tight against the brick wall and squeezes his eyes shut, hugging his knees to his chest and biting down on a whimper as he tries to think of something other than the pervasive, incessant _pain_.

But every attempt at distraction is interrupted by a fresh throb or pang as he shifts ever so slightly, as he breathes just a bit too deeply. He's pretty sure he has broken bones; his ribs are definitely cracked and his wrist is sprained at the very least; his thigh hurts so much, the bone is probably bruised to the marrow. Mottled bruises blossom over his naked body, swelling and disfiguring, discoloring his flesh.

Everything hurts. And it doesn't stop. They've beaten every inch of him, so he can hardly retreat from it. The damage is plain to see, since they took his clothes. He hates them for that too, almost as much as the pain, and he fights back tears and curls up a little tighter, despite the shooting agony in his leg, to try to preserve his shredded modesty. The camera in the top corner of the cell, just out of reach, stares down at him with its gleaming eye, and he glares back, defiant.

Defiant, but also pathetic, trying to hide his broken body.

Billy's never been ashamed of his physique, is the funny thing, he reflects bitterly. He's answered the door many times in naught but his underclothes, and once, after losing a dare, streaked through the halls of Clandestine Oversight and Administration Services. He joked that it was the safest place to do so, at least, since any record of the indiscretion would needs be classified.

He idly wonders if the footage of him cowering in the corner, bruised and bloody and covered in filth will be classified. If it'll be catalogued away in some CIA vault, or if his captors are broadcasting it to the world on the web. The thought makes him nauseous. He doesn't want to be seen like this. Alone, he can pretend that this never happened; if there is a record, it will be real, and he'll have to live with it.

Assuming, of course, that he lives.

-o-

It goes on. The pain goes on; the beatings leave fresh bruises, black and violet over the older ones, fading to yellow. Eventually no inch of skin is unmarred, though the bruises grow harder to see under the dirt and flaking dry blood.

They dump him in his cell, and sometimes, he's too weak to even roll over and crawl to his corner. Sometimes, he simply lies there and thinks about how he won't cry.

They can't take that from him.

It's his last refuge, he's found; the last shred of dignity he will hold. He's cried in the interrogations, of course; those tears are unbidden, instinctual and reflexive. He's screamed and choked and sobbed.

But he won't _weep_. Not alone, nut under the watchful eye of the camera. He's not sure why he draws that distinction, or why it's any different, but he decides that it is and he holds on to it. He lies broken and battered and alone, humiliated and in pain, but he will not give them evidence of his despair.

-o-

After some time, Billy gives up hope of being rescued intact.

After some time, Billy gives up hope of being rescued at all. Help hasn't come; he's probably been written off by the higher-ups, "eaten by wolves" and disavowed. It makes sense with his interrogation; his torturers seem less enthusiastic about demanding things of him, and mostly appear to beat him out of boredom. He's of little value now. They're waiting for him to die.

Billy's waiting to die too.

But he doesn't weep. The despair settles deep inside him, heavy in his chest, but it at least fills the void left by the hope he gave up. Despair is easier than hope. He can let go of hope.

All he has left is his defiance now. So that, more than hope, more than his sense of self, he clings to.

He'll die here.

But he'll take the scraps of his defiance with him. He won't give them everything. He'll take his wretched tears to his unmarked grave.

-o-

One day, the beating doesn't come. No one comes. There's silence in the hall, though the little red light on the camera remains on.

The next day, no one comes for him either. He wonders if the beatings have stopped.

He barely notices that the food and water have stopped too.

At first the hunger grows. Even as some of the aches in his extremities begin to fade, the ache in his belly grows. His mouth becomes dry and his lips crack and he curls in on himself, not out of modesty but out of anguish.

For a while, the hunger is all he can think about.

Then, he stops thinking. The persistent void inside of him becomes numb as sensation ebbs. His body begins to feel strangely light, as if it's dematerializing. The beatings stop. The food stops. Everything stops. Until all that's left in the world is the blinking red light on the camera.

And then that flickers out, and Billy is existing in a vacuum wherein his molecules are slowly coming apart. He disintegrates, and it's a strange sort of freedom.

-o-

Billy stops existing. He floats on the floor, unconfined, drifting in and out of consciousness, lucid by only the most liberal definition. He's fairly sure this is the process of dying, and thinks he ought to care more. He has reasons to care that he's dying, but he can't remember them. He can't remember much. That's probably the dying, too. But at least he's beyond hurting. Beyond caring.

Or so he thinks.

Because the door clicks open and_ it isn't over_, he realizes with a panicked thought. He flinches, but otherwise doesn't move. He wills himself to be still, to show no fear, no despair. He also wonders, though, if he could move if he tried. The beatings had stopped. They'd left him to die. But maybe they changed their minds... maybe they'll piece him back together just enough to take him apart again.

He's dying. He wishes he'd hurry up and be dead. Because Billy is ready for it to be over. He has nothing left but his shard of defiance that digs painfully into his heart as he lies on the floor and doesn't look...

A hand touches him and this time he doesn't flinch; doesn't even breathe. He wills himself to be dead; to be free.

But instead of grabbing him roughly as always, the hand lightly touches his throat, two fingers settling gently against his pulse point. He hears a gasp of breath.

"He's alive!"

The voice is familiar. Why is it familiar? Billy has a hard time remembering... he's let go of so much.

"Billy! Billy, can you hear me?"

He knows the voice. It's not a cruel voice. He blinks lazily, opening his eyes, though he's too weak to turn his head. A hand, firm but careful, cups his face, however, and tilts it up toward the light.

Billy had given up hope.

But the men standing over him, he realizes, hadn't.

His team is here.

"Oh my God-"

"- I will kill those sons of bitches-"

"-Give me your coat!"

Billy moans as he's moved, though the sound is almost more of a wheeze.

"We've got you, buddy."

"Just hold on."

"You're okay now."

Okay. Billy doesn't really remember being okay. He barely remembers anything, besides not letting them see-

He doesn't want to be seen like this, he thinks. He's naked and broken and bloody and half-dead and, and... and his team wraps him up in a coat and hauls him to his feet nonetheless, carrying him when his broken legs don't support him. He cries out, a small and strangled noise, and feels strong arms carefully reach out to support him. "It's okay, Billy. Everything's going to be okay..."

The words are repeated like a litany. Promising hope, for the first time in an eon.

And finally, as his teammates carry him out, Billy's eyes begin to burn…

And Billy weeps.


End file.
